


shadows have been cast on us

by TLvop



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Depression, Gen, Hard of Hearing Clint Barton, obscure greek mythical references, post-canon fallout, supportive friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-25
Updated: 2012-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-08 12:53:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TLvop/pseuds/TLvop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She cannot always be his eyes.</p><p> (Natasha and Clint, post-canon. A scene.)</p><p>(Note: not a new fic, just realized previous title may have been potentially triggery.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	shadows have been cast on us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SugarFey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarFey/gifts).



Clint is leaning against the window frame, staring out at San Diego, exhaustion written into every line of him. His blue shirt is wet with sweat, and in the next room his treadmill emits the faint electric hum of being on stand-by.

"Hey," Natasha says, closing the door behind her. He doesn't react, even though he hasn't taken his hearing aids off for weeks. She moves to the kitchen area of the open room, not walking stealthily but keeping her steps steady and even. Most people react unpleasantly to being snuck up on, especially snipers. She sets the bag down, pulls out frozen lasagna and a loaf of bread. She frowns at the oranges, then removes one of them as well.

After everything bakeable is in the oven, she takes a knife and slices into the orange peel, scoring a diameter into the rind before starting to tear it off. Disassembling an orange over a bowl, with nails manicured recently enough that the juice stings at her cuticles is not the most elegant way of preparing the fruit, but the rinds throws a fine scented dust into the air. Clint stirs, and blinks, Argos Panoptes dragging himself from enchanted sleep.

"'Tasha," he says, and smiles at her from across the room. She doesn't remind him that anyone could have killed him a hundred times while he was lost in thought.

She smiles, and tilts her head to the bag of oranges, and when he crosses over to her and them, acidic juice burning over her fingers and worry burning over her heart, she lifts her head and meets his gaze. "You need a counsellor," she says, pitching her voice low and quiet, an observation instead of a challenge.

She cannot always be his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Because I have realized the weirdnesses of PTSD with hyper-arousal aren't widespread knowledge, a quick note: I see Clint as always feeling like he's in a potential battle zone post-Loki, and due to that being very on edge (not completely; he doesn't feel everything is life or death -- but he feels that potential is always there; so he can be calm, but he can't relax). Dealing with hyper-arousal longterm is very tiring, and can cause your nervous system to basically over-clock and shuts its danger sense off entirely for awhile.


End file.
